


The Hunted and the Haunted

by TheCrackedKatana



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And what exactly is Kylo Ren?, Blood, Celtic Fuckery, Celtic Myth - Freeform, Celtic Pagan AU, Don't fuck with shit you don't understand, M/M, Murder, Paganism, Supernatural Elements, Talons are scarier than lightsabers, Witch Hux, magick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrackedKatana/pseuds/TheCrackedKatana
Summary: The town that shuns him turns to the witch called Armitage Hux for protection when seemingly random citizens turn up eviscerated and unrecognizable.  With his skill for tracking the unnatural and rather unwanted psychometric abilities, Armitage is the only likely candidate for discovering what may be behind these attacks. But all magic comes with a price.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration with the amazingly talented [Littleststarfighter](http://littleststarfighter.tumblr.com/) who was kind enough to let me play in and help develop this AU! I plan for this to be a "short" story for Samhain, but eh, you all know how that goes. Also? Hux with long hair is my fucking jam, okay. Starfighter will be posting art for this, which I will be sure to insert as soon as she posts it!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I am mixing Celtic myth and magick (yes, with a k) with my own practices and ideas. This isn't meant to be historically accurate or in perfect alignment with the myths presented. It's just some scary, sexy shit that's for fun. ;)

"It happened here, in the parlor. Right before her very eyes."

Armitage steps over the broken shards of a lamp, the remnants of a tapestry frayed to indistinguishable threads. Overturned furniture and battered decor are strewn in haphazard piles, silent casualties of the violent assault.

But it is blood that is always the most tedious matter to navigate, especially as it begins to dry to a viscous, tacky organic glue that insinuates itself into every crack and crevice. While the servant kneels upon the hardwood floor and scrubs with diligent hands, her delicate fingers have begun to a tell-tale tremor. Distress permeates her aura, a beacon of energetic discord that Armitage must work to keep from intruding upon his own personal space.

He does not examine the claw marks upon the wall nor the tattered draperies. Instead, he kneels beside the servant girl, a child no older than 15, and braces himself.

"My dear," he begins. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what you saw?"

McFarlan scoffs. "She cannot do that. The girl is mute. Possibly deaf. And dumb as that floor that you kneel upon now, good sir. You are wasting your time."

Armitage makes no move to rise. What nonsense! As if this pontificating buffoon can so much as fathom the emotional state of any other than himself. But Armitage himself on the other hand . . .

He catches the girl's gaze and offers her an upturned palm, smiling encouragingly as she reaches tentative fingers towards his grasp. He draws a deep breath into his lungs and holds it, eyes flitting to half-mast as the tips of her work-worn fingers graze his own. A pulsating shock races up his arm, spiking chills to his skin as the hues of crimson and gold within the room flicker and dim.

 

_The shattering of glass. A voiceless scream. Talon-like nails clinging to the gilded piano. Broad, naked shoulders. A wisp of shadow. The dark tolling chime of a female voice. Searching. Pleading._

_A name he cannot decipher. Syllables that form words, yet fragment into verbal static._

_Creature. Abomination. Monster._

_But it is the hand of man that claws its way through shattered glass and plaster, that lifts the servant woman from her feet._

**_The blood is weak._ **

_The man stands over the crumpled body, panting, trembling. Naked. Blood-spattered over skin that seems to ripple and writhe. A glowing citron gaze. One corner of his lips lift in a smirk._

**_We see you._ **

With a gasp, Armitage relinquishes his grip upon the girl's hand and rises to pull gloves of soft leather from his inner coat pocket. The slightest tremble wavers his fingers as he pulls the supple material over them, flexing his hands as if to call the blood back into his skin.

"Are you even listening to me, Hux?"

The witch brushes away a lock of his red hair that has come loose from the ribbon near the nape of his neck and tucks it behind his ear. "To you? No," he says simply.

"Well . . .?" McFarlan stands before him, hands upon his hips, the girth of his gut threatening to override the seam of his waistband at any moment.

"What is it you wish for me to say to you, McFarlan? That your maid servant was not at all affected by the untimely demise of her mother as it unfolded in grisly detail before her very eyes? I think not."

"What I wish for you to say is that you will find this creature and dispose of it as you and your kind are wont to do," McFarlan says. "I don't give a good goddamn about your questionable methods for such a thing. I care only that you do it. You will, of course, be compensated."

"Hmph." A sneer curves one side of Armitage's mouth as he brushes a bit of lint from his coat. "I am not concerned with your money, McFarlan. I am far more concerned with what made this creature target your servant and why." He nods to the maid that has taken to doggedly scrubbing the wood floor once more. "And the girl is not deaf, nor is she a dullard. You frighten her with your curt mannerisms and ill-tempered disregard for common human decency. It's quite a wonder that your kitchen staff has not attempted to poison you with some sort of oleander confection disguised as a pastry."

McFarlan puffs out his chest, hands rigid at his sides. "I beg your pardon!"

"Beg whatever you like," Armitage says. "I've business to attend to. Now, good evening to you."

Without waiting for some manner of blustering rebuttal, Armitage strides from the room and out the front of door of foyer. The wind combs anxious fingers through the yellowing leaves of a nearby tree, rustling the branches into a clatter and Armitage pauses to flick a glance towards the limbs. A swatch of torn fabric lingers there, clutched between the bark fingers of the lowest branch, flittering like a tiny flag.

_Take it._

The witch pauses, reaches a hesitant gloved hand towards the material.

_Take. It._

"Bloody hell, enough of this," he grumbles.

He snatches the cloth and pockets it as he summons his metaphysical shields to block out the negative energy that oozes from the premises. What a pity the creature had not targeted McFarlan himself rather than some poor, unsuspecting kitchen servant.

He does not walk along the main path into town, but rather bypasses any interaction with others via a convenient woodland trail that runs parallel to the river. Others would become lost, but it is a path he knows by heart. Every footfall is familiar. Each tree like a nod to a beloved friend. There is no temptation to rejoin society as he had once been, no yearning to mingle with socialites or wealthy land owners. He no longer belongs to that world. And perhaps he never had.

The cottage is modest but spacious enough for his workings, a welcome respite from the bustle of town life. Wood creaks as he climbs the steps up onto the porch and reaches for the door which is not sealed shut by a lock, but something far more protective. The edges of the ward ripple at the touch of Armitage's hand, the iron clasp disengaging from the inside as he steps across the threshold. Candles flare to life with a wave of his fingers. Simple elemental conjuring takes little concentration after many years of practice.

A trilling purr greets him from somewhere near the table and he stoops to pet the orange tabby who ventures from the shadows.

"Missed me, did you?" He scratched the cat beneath her chin and she chirps happily. "Yes, well. It would appear as if our rogue beast has struck again. It's quite worrisome, this one. I haven't the faintest idea just what manner of creature he might be."

His familiar cocks an ear and tilts her head before leaping lightly to the top of the table, watching as he removes his frock coat and drapes it over the nearest chair. It is not until she hops onto the chair and nudges the pocket that he remembers the scrap of fabric.

He reaches inside with a still-gloved hand and holds the fabric aloft. It is unremarkable in both color and texture, an unbleached heavy cotton that is entirely too common, but it is the design near the edge that puzzles him. Not embroidery, not a pattern, but rather a swirl of line work that looks to be burned into the material. Almost as if it is branded into it.

Bringing the fabric close to his nose, he halts himself just before giving it a sniff and wrinkles his nose in disgust. Honestly. Instead, he chooses to set it in the empty ritual bowl that he has carved with his own hands. Millicent sets white tipped paws upon the table and peers into the bowl with a craning of her neck. A low growl rumbles from her throat and Armitage pauses in his disrobing to toss her a glance.

"Yes, yes, I know," he says. "I do promise to get rid of it once I have a better idea of just what might be wandering the countryside in search of the blood of chambermaids and nobility alike. But for now, it must remain there." Armitage arches an eyebrow. "I trust that you will not make off with it during the night, Millie?"

The cat flattens her ears and grumbles, but hops onto the floor just the same.

"Very good, then," Armitage says.

He pulls the ribbon that binds his hair free, folds it in half, sets it upon the table and reaches for the weapon strapped to his thigh. The "knife" is a deceptive thing, with the handle of a pistol and blade that folds away just beneath a very loaded barrel, a barrel loaded not with gunpowder, but iron pellets.

Perfect for a lethal shot. Exceptional for incapacitating fae.

The blade itself is etched with swirling patterns, a decorative filigree from afar, but far more deadly, for the witch has imprinted them upon the steel himself.

He takes a disdainful inventory of the contents of the pantry before deciding that nothing has any manner of appeal and sprawls upon the bedding with a sigh. Perhaps he should have ventured into the woods, deep into the heart of the countryside where none ventured, beyond the fields and into the mountains to another town. Unknown. Unremarkable. Then, there might have been a chance for some small shred of peace.

The weight of a small, furred body upon his chest is a welcome intrusion and he strokes the cat's flank for a moment before allowing exhaustion to claim him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Branches clatter against the windowpane, a curiously rhythmic pattern, almost a code of sorts.

_Tap-tap-TAP. Tap-tap-TAP._

Armitage's brow knits in annoyance. The Goddess shall have to forgive him for seeing to it that those branches are shorn come daylight. Sleep is elusive enough as it is without the added nuisance of natural percussion.

It is not until a low, fearful growl issues from his furred companion that Armitage bothers to crack an eyelid. The candles have long since extinguished themselves, leaving only the silvered shafts of moonlight to filter through the glass panes, spreading pale fingers across the wooden floor.

A shadow knifes through the static beams and the cat hisses.

"Millie, whatever is the matter with you?" he mumbles. "It is probably some manner of deer or--"

A hand splays upon the window, massive and tipped in talons of curled darkness and Armitage scrambles for his weapon, cocking the hammer of the pistol in favor of the blade and pointing the barrel with an unwavering hand towards the window. The energetic fabric of the protection wards strains against his subconscious like a string plucked taught by the overzealous rake of an unskilled hand and he leaps to his feet, edging towards the window, pistol in hand.

"Foolish of you to attempt to break my wards, creature," Armitage murmurs more to himself than to whatever might be lurking just beyond the glass.

Uneven, shuffling steps. The crunching of newly fallen leaves. Heavy, erratic breathing. The scrape of something rigid along the outside wall.

"Enough of this nonsense." Armitage plants his free hand against the wall and murmurs an incantation in ancient Gaelic, not a request, but a call to action from the forces of old and a strangled cry erupts from the other side of the fixture.

A cry that sounds oddly human.

The ward pulses against his hand, melding itself to his touch, responding to the flow of universal energy and the scurry clatter of retreating steps. Bare feet upon crisp foliage. Upright from the sound of things. And definitely having thought better of invading Armitage's quiet space as well as his slumber.

The witch brushes his hair from his eyes and sags against the wall, weapon held lank at his side.

"Well, then," he says. "That's quite enough of that."

He trudges back to his bed where he flops into an ungraceful heap upon the linens before realizing that lying flat upon his stomach is more conducive to smothering than sleeping. Rolling onto his side, he slides the weapon into the specialized compartment in the mattress and flicks his gaze to the window once more.

The silhouette of darkness shifts against the changing shadows of nightfall, forming eerily familiar shapes. The head of a wolf. The claws of a bear. The face of a stranger.

Armitage rubs at his eyes. The darkness splits into a wicked flash of teeth, a jagged smile, the slow blink of glowing yellow eyes.

_We see you._

Snatching the weapon from its resting place, Armitage bolts from the room and out onto the porch, barefoot and shirtless, hair a wild cacophony of sleep-tousled fire.

"Show yourself!" he barks.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrating with the high aftermath of tinkling feminine laughter. A growl that bleeds into a groan.

_Soon._


End file.
